Going Home
by harrypotterfan14
Summary: After Moriarty's web has been destroyed, Sherlock decides to go home. But a surprise waits for him when he arrives. Rated M. No strong language or violence, but does contain suicidal themes.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, this is merely a story written in that universe. I own nothing.

Author's Note: Just something i couldn't get out of my head. This is my first ever fanfiction, so i apologise for any mistakes. Rather dark. Warnings for suicidal themes. Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism always appreciated.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as the light above his head was switched off. He glared over at the taxi driver - thirty six, crumbling marriage, and two children with whom he had a rather strained relationship - and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was nervous. He, Sherlock Holmes, was nervous. He would have laughed if he had been alone. He tried to tell himself he had no reason to be nervous. Everything would go fine; he would arrive at the flat, Mrs Hudson would cry, John would be overjoyed, and life would go back to how it had been. Back to normal. He needed normal after the past three years.

Moriarty's web - all his soldiers, his "friends", everyone who could keep Sherlock dead - were gone. Finished. Dealt with. And so was Sherlock. Three years spent on the run, hiding away from the spotlight, from the public, from anyone who could recognise him, anyone who could put his friends in danger - anyone who could hurt them. He was finished. Free.

Free to go back to England, back to London, back to John. Back to home. He could see it now: Mrs Hudson opening the door, expecting the post, or a friend of John's, and seeing him. She would stand there for a minute, her face frozen in a myriad of emotions; shock at first, turning into disbelief and wonder, merging into hope, and finally joy. Anger would come later. The pain and hurt of being deceived of being lied to and tricked. He would explain, of course. That he did it to save her, to protect her and Lestrade and John. That Moriarty would have killed them, would have shot them in an instant had he not jumped. That he had no other choice.

She would forgive him. They all would, eventually. He smirked as he imagined John's reaction. He would be the angriest. He would shout at him, undoubtedly. Try and make him feel guilty. He'd milk it for weeks, using it to make Sherlock clean the flat, or get the shopping in. He'd give up when he saw that it wasn't working. Sherlock couldn't be played that easily. And he had nothing to feel guilty about! He had saved John's life! He would be dead if it weren't for Sherlock. Even after three years, the fear in his gut that John might get hurt had not evaporated.

He could remember that day with a hauntingly crisp clarity. The cold, the slight wind, the sing-song voice of Moriarty trying to coax a reaction out of him. The crippling sickness in his stomach at the thought that his friends might be killed, might be hurt, all because of him. If he had been smarter, quicker, then none of this would have happened. He wouldn't have spent a second on the run, and Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John would have been spared the pain of his apparent death.

He tried to banish the unhappy thoughts from his mind, focusing instead on the scenery passing outside his window. He couldn't deny that it was fantastic to be back in London. He was back in the city he had spent the best years of his life in. He hadn't been in London for over a year. He had tried to make it back as often as was safe, but he had had to stop the year before. It was getting too dangerous. New evidence for his case had turned up. No doubt a present from the late Moriarty's cohorts, a last attempt to ridicule him and stamp out any believers he had garnered - or more accurately, that John had garnered - on his behalf. Conclusive evidence, they said. Definitive proof that he was who they said he was - a fake; a criminal; a murderer. Definitive proof that he was dead. He didn't know what the evidence was, or how they had manufactured it in the first place. All he knew was that his name had risen once again in the press. That he was being slandered and destroyed in the papers and on the television. That what little support he had garnered had been destroyed.

That was the last time he had seen John. He had came to his grave, as he often did, and had stood in front of it for over two hours. Standing still and silent, with a newspaper clutched tightly in one hand. He had stood, while the rain fell, while the families and couples walked passed him, throwing him pitying looks, never once taking his eyes off of his gravestone. Sherlock didn't know if he spoke in the time he stood there. He was standing too far away, and the rain had drowned out anything John might have said. He didn't know how long John would have stood there. Eventually, a distraught and drenched Mrs Hudson ran over to him from her hastily parked taxi. He didn't object, and was lead over to the car obediently, as if he were a small child. Sherlock hadn't stayed after John left. There was no point. There was nothing there except an empty grave and the fake pity of strangers, soon to forget your very existence in their own woes.

Sherlock dragged his mind to the present as the car began to slow. It pulled up on the pavement opposite the flat, as Sherlock had requested. He paid the taxi driver the correct amount, ignoring the slight huff he got after the driver noticed there was no tip, and stepped nervously out of the taxi. He breathed in the crisp London air as the taxi sped away, and gazed hesitantly over to the flats opposite. Steeling his breath, he crossed the street hastily, reaching the pavement in seconds. He halted as he faced his old flat. Now that the task was in front of him, he could no longer ignore his nerves. What would John say when when he saw him? He wondered briefly if he would hit him. The last time he had hit him, it had been Sherlock who had told him to. It had hurt, and he didn't care much for a repeat. It wouldn't matter, though. If John wanted to hit him, he would hit him. Sherlock had had worse in the previous three years than a punch out of anger from a friend.

He dragged up all vestiges of courage he had left, and stepped forward quickly, rapping his knuckles sharply on the large, imposing door.

The door opened almost immediately, taking Sherlock by surprise. An older, tireder looking Mrs Hudson than he remembered stood in the doorway, coat on and scarf wrapped tightly around her neck.

"There you are George, i was starting to w-" Her voice cut off as her eyes took in the sight before her. She looked at him in disbelief, glancing at his familiar curly black hair (no longer the horrible blonde he had died it while on the run), his distinguishable blue grey eyes, so quick to come alive when he was faced with a difficult puzzle, all the way down to his customary black overcoat. Her eyes widened, and her hand crept up to cover her mouth, dropping the purse she had been holding. Neither made a move to catch it as it hit the floor, coins scattering down the stairs and into the street.

"Sherlock?" She asked tentatively, her voice quiet and thick with different emotions. Mainly surprise, but something else; Something that sounded suspiciously like guilt. Definitely not the reaction Sherlock had predicted, he thought, shuffling awkwardly on the steps. He had expected her to be emotional, to throw her arms around him and hug him, like she was accustomed to doing. Instead she stood there, silently, staring at him without a trace of the joy he had been expecting.

A horn sounding from behind him shattered the tense silence, making Mrs Hudson jump. "George!" She exclaimed quietly, stooping painfully to retrieve her fallen purse and any of the coins she could find. Sherlock hovered at the doorstep hesitantly, looking down at the woman in front of him. She was moving slowly, as if every movement caused her pain. Bending quickly, he picked up several of the scattered coins surrounding him, and held them in his hand, glancing up to hand them to Mrs Hudson. When he saw her face, however, he froze. She was staring at him, and she had started to cry. Silent tears were falling down her wrinkled cheeks, and her eyes stared into his with an intensity and pain that made him uncomfortable.

"Oh, Sherlock. We...I thought you were dead. I-How...How are you alive? How are you here? J-John saw you fall. He saw you, Sherlock! You were dead! They said you were dead!" She stepped forward quickly, one hand grasping onto his coat, as if to make sure he was real. He took a breath, finding it surprisingly difficult to meet her eyes.

"Mrs Hudson," He began, clearing his throat slightly to accustom himself to speaking again after the silent taxi ride. "As you can see, I-well, i am obviously not dead. It...it was all faked. I had to do it. Moriarty... He had snipers on you and Lestrade and John! He told me i had to die, or he would shoot. I couldn't let him kill you all. I apologize for any... for any pain i may have caused you. I will explain more, i promise, but i would rather not repeat myself twice. It's a fairly long story. Where's John?" He spoke quickly and awkwardly. The sooner he got this over with, the better. The explanation would take a while, and no doubt there would be questions. And tears. And shouting. Lots of shouting.  
He looked up at the silence, in time to see a strange expression flit briefly over Mrs Hudson's face. Her expression changed to one of neutrality. She gathered up her purse and smoothed her jacket down. "I was just about to visit him, actually. You're more than welcome to come along if you want, Sh-Sherlock." She said his name strangely, as if she wasn't used to saying it. She motioned behind him, and he turned, seeing a plain black taxi sitting across the street. The driver sat behind the wheel, looking over at them curiously. "That's George. He takes me to - to visit John. He was late today. I thought you were him." She nodded over to George, and smiled rather apologetically at Sherlock. "Oh, i'm sorry, dear. You just gave me a little shock, is all. I... don't think i'm not thrilled that you're here. Of course i'm happy you're here. You're alive!" At this, she leaned forward and grasped Sherlock in what he supposed was meant to be a warm embrace. It was quick and loose. Nothing like the way she had hugged him years ago, with warmth and fondness.

She stepped back stiffly, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled out of her pocket. "Well, we best be off. Don't want to keep George waiting too long." She laughed slightly, nervously, the laugh devoid of humour. Walking forward, she stepped around Sherlock smartly and started down the steps. Sherlock stood solidly on the doormat, looking at Mrs Hudson's retreating figure. This was not at all what he had expected. John had been living here the last time he was in London. He had seen him. It had surprised him slightly. He would have expected John to move out fairly soon after his funeral. The flat would be a constant reminder of Sherlock, and besides - there was no way he could afford the flat on his wages. And Mrs Hudson's reaction! He had expected her to be angry with him - or course she would be - but he at least expected her to be fairly happy that he wasn't dead. He had expected something more than this. It didn't make sense! Sighing with frustration, he walked towards the waiting taxi.

"Where does John live now?" Sherlock asked, as the taxi carried them towards the unknown destination. He spoke as much to break the silence as out of curiosity. Mrs Hudson had barely spoke to him in the fifteen minutes they had been driving. She had only replied to the taxi driver's polite conversation with short, unenthusiastic responses. Sherlock felt slightly uneasy by this. He had never known Mrs Hudson to be deliberately impolite.

"Oh, it's not far." Mrs Hudson said, not answering the question, Sherlock noted. The journey passed in silence, but for the monotonous swish of the windscreen wipers, trying in vain to wipe away the rain that had started falling five minutes into the taxi ride. Sherlock sat rigidly in his seat, too uncomfortable to relax. The scenery passed in a rainy blur outside his window, houses and flats and offices merging into one. Minutes passed in tense silence, as Sherlock racked his brain for something, anything, to say to make the journey less tense. Before he could think of anything, however, the taxi began to slow down, turning off the road and into a gravel road. The car crunched along the road as Sherlock strained in his seat, desperately trying to look passed the blurry rain and see outside.

Mrs Hudson seemed to gather herself together as the car slowed to a stop. She leaned forward, paid the driver, and whispered something Sherlock couldn't make out, into his ear. He glanced back at Sherlock quickly, his expression difficult to read, then turned, pulling out a newspaper from his pocket and began to read. "Come along, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson said, opening the door and stepping out of the car. She produced an umbrella from her handbag, and opened it, protecting herself from the rain. Sherlock cautiously stepped out of the car, looking about himself earnestly. He stopped in his tracks as he recognised his surroundings. "What... why are we here, Mrs Hudson? What about John?" He asked, his voice faltering slightly.

She turned, and started walking along a path he had only observed others walking. She spoke without turning around. "We're just stopping here for a bit, Sherlock. Follow me." She continued along the pathway. He started along the path, walking quickly to catch up. After walking for only a minute, he saw Mrs Hudson standing exactly where he had expected her.

Approaching his grave, he stood next to the silent Mrs Hudson. "I don't understand." He said, forcing the words out, frustration thick in his voice. "Why are we here?"

He looked over at Mrs Hudson, and felt his gut clench as he saw the tears streaming down her face. Her gaze, however, wasn't fixed on his gravestone. It wasn't even on him. He followed her gaze, and froze. His eyes had fallen on a gravestone. It was a simple grave. Dark grey. Cheap, but well tended, showing that someone had cared greatly for the deceased. But it wasn't the grave's condition that caught Sherlock's eye. It was the writing.

Here lies  
John Hamish Watson  
Beloved brother and friend  
1972-2012

No.

Sherlock's brain fell silent. He could hear the rain hit against the graves around him, drumming against an empty crisp packet left by someone with no respect. He could hear a dog bark excitedly off in the distance. Could hear the sound of horns blazing far away on the busy main road they had came from. He could feel the rain slowly soaking him as he stood there silently. His gut that had felt such fear back on the rooftop of st Bart's did not feel that fear now. He did not feel anything. Dimly, he became aware that Mrs Hudson had began to speak to his right.  
"He wanted to be buried next to you." She said, voice quiet. He looked over at her then, noting that she seemed to have stopped crying. Probably for his sake, he thought, as if from far away. Probably trying to pull herself together to look strong for him.

"He was adamant." She began, turning to look at the gravestone pensively. "He never believed what they said about you. Nothing. He was determined to prove your innocence. Told us all, anyone who would listen, that you weren't a fake, that you were his friend. That you wouldn't lie to him. They pitied him, most of them. Humoured him, and the moment his back was turned, they talked about how terrible it was. Poor John Watson. Couldn't see past his admiration for you to the truth. He didn't care though, of course. He knew, i think, that not many people believed him. He was smart, John. People didn't really realise that, since he was always with you. No one looks smart compared to you. But he wasn't stupid.

"He got a few supporters, you know. A few people started believing him. It got more publicity, more people started believing, and then it happened. Evidence, they said. I'm not sure what. Some witnesses, i think. People who came forward and said you'd paid them to keep silent. Other things. Silly things. But enough to convince everyone else. It was only John left. Greg Lestrade, maybe, too. I don't know. He was demoted, once you... left. Ridiculed. They thought he was an idiot. Had been duped for years by Sherlock Holmes. He got a divorce, moved to the country. I haven't seen him in months. But, Sherlock, it got..._ bad_. For John. People stopped humouring him, started telling him to get over it, that it wasn't healthy, his fixation with proving your innocence. They started turning on him. He was ridiculed. Nearly everyone he knew told him you were a fake. I... Sherlock, i hated seeing him like that, i didn't know what to do. I told him that you were dead, that maybe he should try to move on. There was an article in the papers... Horrible thing, it was. All of it...changed him. He stopped leaving the flat. Lost his job. Lost his friends. I'd kept him on at 221b, for less of the rent. I couldn't kick him out. It was his last link to you."

She looked up then, gazing around her, her eyes shining slightly, before taking a deep breath.

"He hung himself a little less than a year ago. On your birthday. I think it just reminded him too much... He left a note, you know. Told me he was sorry. Thanked me for everything. He said... he said not to be sad. He said he was going to see you. That he was going home. I..." She looked up at him, dragging her used handkerchief across her face. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." She whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he stood there, tears mingling with the rain across his face. He didn't notice Mrs Hudson leave for a few minutes. He simply stood silently as the rain poured around him, plastering his hair to his face. He didn't notice himself fall to his knees. He became aware of footsteps behind him after what might have been a minute or an hour. He felt strong hands grasp onto his shoulders and pull him up to a standing position. The hands turned him round, and he got a look at his helper's face. "M-Mycroft," He choked out, his voice unusually quiet. Mycroft looked down at him, his customary smirk nowhere to be seen. "Come along, Sherlock. We should get you home."  
Sherlock shook his head. He tried to tell him that his home had hung himself nearly a year ago, but his voice failed him. Glancing back once more at his friend - no, his best friend's grave, he allowed himself to be lead away, disappearing into the rain.


End file.
